


This Love Came Back to Me

by SimplyShelbs16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Exes, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Second Chances, persuasion au, sort of (loosely-based)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-22 02:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30031803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyShelbs16/pseuds/SimplyShelbs16
Summary: S3-S4 Canon Divergence. Two years ago, Molly Hooper left London and Sherlock Holmes behind after six blissful months together. When Mike asks for her to consult on some autopsies, she's forced into seeing him again--the man whose trust she betrayed, and whose heart she shattered.*Loosely based on Jane Austen's Persuasion and Taylor Swift's Cornelia Street.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 32
Kudos: 41





	1. Already Gone

_“Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake,” Sherlock told her, his tone soft as velvet. “Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me was the one person who mattered the most. You made it all possible.”_

_Molly felt her heart hammering in her chest, wanting so badly to believe there was more to his words than gratitude. His eyes bore into hers, searching desperately for any indication that she wanted this. Wanted **him**. And she did. She wanted him so much. He could see it in her eyes, the romantic tension almost palpable. Sherlock’s tongue darted out between his lips for a split second._

_“I know I’m an arse sometimes,” he admitted, “and I’m far from the ideal significant other, but Molly, I would like it if you would allow me to give it a try. I think I could make you very happy…if you let me.”_

_The smallest of smiles appeared on her face. She stepped closer, filling the space between them, her hand hesitantly reaching up to trace the outline of his face. “I believe you said something about going out for chips?”_

_The smile he gave her could have lit up the universe—it definitely lit up hers._

That was nearly two years ago, now. Molly Hooper stared out the kitchen windows above her sink, the rain running in rivulets down the glass. In just two days’ time, it would be exactly seven-hundred-and-thirty days since she left London. She found herself in Galway, Ireland, taking up a job at the University Hospital Mortuary. It wasn’t quite as accommodating as Bart’s, but she was content, though she knew she could’ve been happier.

She had spent a blissful six months with Sherlock Holmes before it all fell apart. Molly wasn’t going to lie to herself—she had spent that time waiting for the other shoe to drop, and she was the one to self-fulfill that event. For so long she had waited for him to kick her to the curb, to walk away from her, but he never did. She only had herself to blame. Molly had moved in with him only after two months together. Looking back now at their whirlwind romance, she realised how young and stupid she had been acting. They both had. Oh, but she had been so in love. She still was. He was everything to her, all that she ever wanted. But there was nothing to be done now.

During the honeymoon phase of their time together, it had been easy to believe how he felt. Molly didn’t find herself questioning it until the reality of their relationship hit her. It hadn’t helped that others had encouraged and confirmed the doubts in her head. She had packed her bags the morning after the Watsons’ wedding, and left Baker Street before Sherlock even knew she was gone. It was cowardly of her, she knew that. What rankled her most is that she had hoped he would prove her wrong when he found she had left—that he would phone her, go after her, tell her how stupid she was being for believing anything other than the fact that he loved her.

It was hard for her when thoughts of Sherlock invaded her mind. Molly gripped her cup of tea tighter, wondering how the hell she allowed him to slip through her fingers. _Because you were scared_ , a voice that sounded eerily like Mary Watson told her. Molly was sure he hated her. It was now the only thing that kept her from reaching out, from going back. Over time, she came to realise that he really had loved her. She had broken his heart and his trust—two things she knew she could never get back. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the most forgiving man. Molly left him regardless of how hard it had been to do so. Not once did she ever tell him that she loved him. It was yet another thing to add to her collection of regrets.

* * *

_Molly laughed in delight as Sherlock spun her around and back again. Her face was red with exertion and her hair was coming out of its bun, strands sticking to her face. They had been dancing all night at their friends’ reception, enjoying each other’s company. Everyone seemed surprised that Sherlock loved to dance, but she hadn’t been. He had shown her that several times in the few months they’ve been together._

_The music slowed, and Sherlock pulled her in close, his lips at her ear. His breath was warm against her skin, sending goosebumps over her body. “So, Miss Hooper, I do hope you are enjoying yourself.”_

_“Oh, I am,” she replied breathlessly. “I’ve never had a better dance partner.”_

_He traced the shell of her ear with his lips, causing her to visibly shiver in his arms. “Molly,” he whispered. “My darling, Molly.” The way he spoke her name made it sound as if it contained the best letters of the alphabet. He didn’t just speak it, but caressed each letter with such deliberate care. “I love you.”_

_Her breath caught in her throat. Though they had been living together, and though they made love quite often, he had never said those words before. It would have been such a happy moment for Molly had she not been panicking. Of course she loved him, but she didn’t dare speak the words aloud, allowing another’s words to play on repeat in her mind. Instead, she brought her hand to the back of his head, burying her fingers in his curls, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. It had been enough for him._

_Molly had a fitful sleep that night whilst Sherlock actually slept soundly. His sleeping habits had greatly improved since they became a couple. It was a sweet thought, but it did nothing to squash the doubts in her mind. It didn’t help that others kept her convinced of them. Her decision to leave hadn’t been planned in advance or even overnight. It had been a moment of pure spontaneity. She had woken up the next morning briefly enough to remember Sherlock telling her he had to meet with Lestrade. Once he left, the impulse to pack up whatever she could and leave came over her. She took one last look at 221B, second thoughts creeping in, but she ignored them. And she ran._

Now, staring at the email on her phone, Molly began to panic. It was from Stamford, requesting her specifically. It appeared there was yet another serial killer on the loose and her replacement at Bart’s was out of their depth. She couldn’t say no—how selfish it would be of her to do so. These victims needed justice. But the thought of seeing Sherlock again had her stomach coiling with nausea. There would be no avoiding him, especially when murder was involved.

Molly silently debated what she should do, knowing damn well she wouldn’t be able to refuse. “Shit.”

* * *

He was an imbecile. Sherlock Holmes had just had it out with Doctor Williams. The man was a rubbish pathologist, unlike—a sharp ache constricted his heart, as it always did when he thought of her. Two years ago, Molly Hooper left him and all of London behind. He could’ve easily deduced where she ran off to, but it had been easier to pretend not to care. Sherlock did all he could to harden his heart enough to protect it. Never would he be so foolish to give it away again.

“Molly bloody Hooper,” he cursed as he stepped into his flat. It boiled his blood every time thoughts of her broke free of his desperate attempt at memory repression. Once he thought of her, she never left his mind. If he was being honest, he had never truly succeeded at deleting their memories together. On the surface, he appeared angry and cold, but on the inside, he was in anguish. His heart had been torn to pieces, shattered, stomped on, and he had been left to die, bleeding himself dry for the love of her.

It would have been one thing had she talked with him, told him that she didn’t love him, but leaving without a word? It had been so unnaturally cruel of her. But why did she have to leave London? Why couldn’t they have at least stayed friends? He would’ve preferred that than to not have her in his life at all. Sherlock wanted to reach out to her, phone her, see if she’d pick up this time. Fear kept him from doing so. “For God’s sake!” he shouted. He could care less about Molly Hooper and her reasons for leaving. She clearly didn’t give a damn about him. As far as he was concerned, he never wanted to see her again.

* * *

With a heavy heart, Molly stood outside the doors to Bart’s Hospital. It took all her strength to just take the few steps that would lead her inside. She looked around the room, some things changed, others still so familiar. After receiving her pass from Sabrina at the front desk, Molly made her way down to the morgue where Stamford was waiting. The smile on his face when he saw her was wholly unexpected. After all, she had left without giving notice.

“Molly! We’ve missed you around here!” he greeted her. “This is Doctor Williams—he’s done a fine job, but found he needed a little help with these victims.”

“Doctor Hooper,” he smiled shyly, “it’s an honour to meet you.”

She shook his hand firmly. “Likewise,” she assured him. “What have we got?” The body before them had clearly been mutilated by a knife, stabbed at least fifteen times.

“Well, cause of death hasn’t been the problem here; it’s quite obvious how the murder was done. What we’ve struggled with is the lack of correct DNA found amongst the victims,” Doctor Williams explained. “I have found some samples, of course, but it’s been leading the police on a wild goose chase. Every lead I’ve been able to find for them has been a dead end. Whoever our murderer is, they’re brilliant! Never have I seen a crime so perfect.”

Molly scrunched her face at his misplaced praise. She snapped on a pair of gloves and took a deep breath. “Right then. Let’s see if I can’t help.”

Just then the door flew open, Sherlock Holmes sweeping through, his coat billowing behind him. “Williams, you’d better not be—“ He stopped short. Molly Hooper stood in the morgue, her deep brown eyes gazing back into his in just as much shock as he felt. He narrowed his piercing cerulean eyes at her, his face stoic. “Doctor Hooper,” he uttered with scorn. “So thoughtful of you to grace us with your presence.”

Mike had been worried about their meeting again, and he silently gestured for Williams to step out of the room with him to give them space.

Molly felt she could hardly breathe. If it were anyone but her, they’d say he looked just the same. He did, of course, but she could see the subtle differences, having memorised every part of him in her mind. His voice, though cold to her now, still left her heart hammering away in her chest. She set her jaw, willing herself not to break down in front of him. “Mike asked if I could consult. I couldn’t turn him down.” 

“Funny, you had no problem turning me down,” he shot back. “We don’t need you here. And we definitely don’t want you here. I especially don’t.” 

Molly knew she deserved his scorn, his cruel demeanor. It only made her angrier at her actions, causing her to take all the anger she felt at herself and project it onto him. “I don’t really care if you want me here!” _Lie_ , a voice in her head accused her. “I will not stand by and allow these victims to not have the justice they deserve. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with Mike. I am a damn good pathologist, and you know that. You can either accept my help or you can get the hell out of the morgue!”

His face blanched, knowing she was right. “Very well, then. I suppose I have no choice in the matter.” Sherlock knew she was waiting for him to make a decision. Would he stay or would he walk away? “I guess I’ll just have to endure it.” Sherlock turned to go out and up to the observation deck, fighting between wanting to be near her but wanting to get as far away from her as possible. The gentle grip of her hand on his arm stopped him in his tracks. It nearly stopped his heart.

“Aren’t you going to help me examine the body?” she asked, her tone much softer than it had been. Despite his cutting remarks, Molly didn’t want him to leave. Just for a moment, she wanted to pretend things were okay, that they always had been. Of course, it was only wishful thinking. Things would never go back to the way they were—it would never be the same as it once was.

He said nothing, unsure of how he felt about her question. Sherlock wanted to examine the body, but was it worth all of the pain he felt just by looking at her? Here she was in the morgue again as if no time had passed, as if she never left. The honeysuckle scent of her perfume tugged at him. He had tried to replicate it by purchasing a small bottle, spritzing it onto the pillow that she once laid her head upon. It never worked, the missing component being the way her body chemistry slightly altered the scent. _Get it together_ , he told himself. 

Molly slowly released his arm from her grip. “I just figured that’s what you wanted to do before I cut into it,” she explained, hoping it would help ease the tension.

“Very well,” he finally said, his voice more choked up than he intended. He hadn’t been given the chance to examine any of the victims himself before the autopsy was finished. It was very curious as to why the bodies continued to be hauled off to Bart’s before Sherlock arrived at each scene. 

Molly had forgotten how much he affected her. Reaching out, touching him—it had been risky, but it paid off. They still worked so well together, playing off the other’s observations with ease. She had missed him so much. It killed her to see how he couldn’t stand the sight of her. It had been all her fault. If she could turn back the clock, Molly would have done things differently. She certainly would have told a certain Mycroft Holmes to shove it, too.

* * *

_“You wanted to see me?” Molly asked, stepping into Mycroft’s office with careful hesitance._

_He looked up from his laptop. “Miss Hooper, yes, please come in, take a seat.” Once she had, he continued. “You and my brother have been quite…cosy for the past few months, I see.”_

_She nodded, unsure of where this was going. “Do I hear disapproval in your voice?”_

_Furrowing his brows, he replied, “Of course not, my dear, simply brotherly concern. As you know, Sherlock and I are both very grateful for your help with Operation Lazarus. You saved his life. I am afraid that my brother has only convinced himself he is in love with you.”_

_“You do not believe that he is?” she asked._

_“I can tell by the quiver in your voice that you don’t believe it either. Am I wrong?” Mycroft saw the slight shake of her head. “I would hate to see this go too far. He will break your heart when one day he wakes up and realises that he was mistaken. Sherlock Holmes isn’t capable of love.”_

_Molly nodded in understanding. She had known it was all too good to be true, deep down. As far as being incapable of love, she didn’t exactly believe that, but incapable of loving_ her _? That was the easiest thing to believe. “So what are you suggesting I do about it?”_

_“Break it off and save yourself the pain.”_


	2. This is London

Being in London again, amongst the bustling streets and busy lives, had Molly in a state of wistfulness. She had been homesick since the day she left and her stomach knotted with deep-seated guilt and regret. It mystified her how this city seemed to scream his name. When she thought of London, she didn’t think of the usual things—the Thames, Buckingham Palace, Trafalger Square, or even Big Ben with its comforting chimes—but she always thought of Sherlock Holmes. He was forever connected to this place much more intimately than anything or anyone else she could think of. And connected to him was the sense of home. She had felt her heart leap in joy when she stepped off the plane.

And now, looking up at the street sign, Molly let out a shaky breath. She had once promised herself she would never grace this very pavement if she ever lost him. And yet she found herself on Baker Street once more. In her hands were the results of their findings, and she sincerely hoped he would be cordial with her, though she knew she didn’t deserve such a kindness. 221B stared down at her as if daring her to cross the threshold, to recall her memories here, to once again face the man who lived in it, and at one time with her.

Molly took each step with trepidation. She wished to not upset him any further, but it couldn’t be helped. Never did she think her actions would have hurt him, for she hadn’t thought he truly felt for her what she felt for him. Her presence was difficult for him and Molly hadn’t a clue how to steer clear. Being put on a case together had made matters complicated. One deep breath and she knocked lightly against the worn wood. She made out a couple of voices including his own. He must have been with a client. Turning on her foot to leave, the door was yanked open, causing her to turn back towards it, towards him.

“Oh,” he frowned, disappointment clear on his face. “It’s just you.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. His callousness tore at her rapidly beating heart. “I brought some of the results for you to look over. You’ll find that there is a particular feature of interest that may turn out to be a lead.”

Sherlock studied her with curious eyes that narrowed when he met hers. He removed the report from her hands and looked it over. “Very good, then. It looks like Mike is no longer in need of your services.”

Molly opened her mouth to protest, stepping forward to follow him inside, but he had quite firmly slammed the door in her face before she could utter a syllable.

When Sherlock turned his back to the slamming door, he was met with Mary Watson’s chiding expression, an eyebrow raised high. “Was it really necessary to do that?”

“She’s the one who decided to leave,” he replied like a five year old.

“Yes, well, that may be true, Sherlock, but I thought you wanted an explanation from her, hmm?” Mary crossed her arms, tapping her foot with impatience. “I don’t agree with how she handled things, but I hardly think it necessary to act like children.” She briefly recalled hearing about their argument in the morgue the day before.

“I’ll stop when she does.” Sherlock was in no mood. He hadn’t seen her in years until yesterday. Molly Hooper broke his heart, betrayed his trust. He told her he loved her, and she ran away. “I once thought she loved me—but, I see now that I was wrong.”

“She _did_ love you, Sherlock,” Mary argued.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he huffed. It wasn’t as if she had said the words back.

“I think you and Molly can work things out—you’re both stubborn, and that causes a lot of damage with situations like yours. One of you needs to be the bigger person,” Mary advised. “I know you’re hurting, but this week could change things. Try to make the best of it.”

Sherlock sighed. “I won’t make any promises, but I’ll try.”

* * *

It was official: Molly Hooper hated herself for what she did to Sherlock. If she could, she knew she would go back when things were okay and do things right. Instead of listening to her doubts and allowing herself to be persuaded into leaving, Molly would have said the words back. She would have told him what she had feared. They would have talked through it and they would still be together now. She was sure of it. He could no longer stand the sight of her. The man who held high disregard of emotions—and for good reason—gave her his heart, and she ruined him.

The next five days in London would be torture, but she had it coming to her. This was the universe biting her back in the arse for what she had done. Molly, upon returning to her hotel room, decided to take a soak in a bubble bath to calm her nerves. Hair up in a messy bun, she sank down into the warm sudsy water, leaning her head back with her eyes closed, unable to keep herself from remembering how it used to be.

_“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered in his ear. Sherlock had drifted off, but he still held her tightly in his arms. It was as if he was afraid to let go. Molly could still feel the ghost of his love all over her body, through her, inside her. In truth, she had never been so happy. But then, why did she feel so scared?_

_If he were to ever wake up one day and realise this wasn’t what he wanted, Molly promised herself she’d never walk Baker Street again. Hell, she probably wouldn’t be able to stomach staying in London if he ever walked away. Or if, God forbid, she ever did. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, his expression one of complete serenity. It made him look ten years younger. Molly pressed her lips to his neck, leaving a trail of soft, warm kisses for him. She heard him moan quietly in his sleep, and it made her smile. God, she loved him so much, her heart ached. What was it about those eight letters that were so overwhelming, so daunting? Maybe one day she’d be brave enough to say them._

The visions in her head never stopped. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t think about him, about their love, magical as it was. For the first time since she arrived back in London, Molly allowed herself to cry; to grieve for them, for the man she had hurt. All she wanted to do was take away his pain, but he’d never allow her close enough to do that. Never again. 

* * *

After a brief conversation with Mike the next day outside the morgue, Sherlock, she noticed, was fast approaching her. Molly braced herself for his scathing remarks, her whole body tensing up as if his words caused her physical pain. Instead, he shoved the manila envelope toward her, insisting she take them back. “Were my findings not to your liking then?” she asked, somewhat feeling put-out.

“On the contrary, Doctor Hooper,” he replied, taking a moment to swallow his pride, “what you discovered is most fascinating.”

Taken aback at the change of attitude, Molly questioned him with her eyes, her mouth slightly agape. “Yes, well, it seemed odd that our murderer went through all of the trouble of making a bloody mess of his victims when his real M.O. was a nearly undetectable poisoning.”

Sherlock nodded. “He’s trying to keep us from profiling him correctly. He’s clever, but not as clever as you.” He felt his face flush, mentally cursing his traitorous body.

Her eyes met his in a brief remembrance of the love they once shared. _My clever Molly_ , he had taken to saying whenever her intellect shone through like a bright star. The man who had once admired her was still there somewhere deep down. She hoped so, anyways. As soon as the spark was there, it was gone, the air somehow colder than it had been. “If that’s all you came here for…I believe you have a murderer to catch.”

“Wait,” he began, taking a small step forward. “It has come to my attention that I’ve been, for lack of a better word, an arse. We should be able to at least be cordial whilst working this case together.” Sherlock had a hard time meeting her eyes. “I’m…I apologise. You really are the best for the job.”

Never had Molly felt more uncomfortable and undeserving of an apology. She gazed at him with soft, sorrowful eyes. “Thank you,” she uttered in a small voice. If he hadn’t looked so uncomfortable, himself, she wasn’t sure if she could’ve found the strength to reply. She wanted to apologise for leaving him, beg him for his forgiveness, but fear—a different kind; one of rejection—stopped her. The awkward silence was deafening and she was thankful when Greg interrupted them.

“There’s been another body, Sherlock. Here’s your chance to go to the scene and—Molly? That you?” Greg grinned happily, going in for a hug.

“It’s been an age,” Molly told him, her guilt eating her up inside. At least he didn’t appear to be angry with her.

Sherlock stood by with his hands behind his back, jealousy rearing its ugly head, his stomach knotting tightly. He watched as Greg gave her a quick peck on the cheek and it took all his strength not to lash out. There was no way he could deny his feelings any longer—he still cared for Molly, still loved her despite everything, but it was clear she had moved on. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he only caught the tail end of Lestrade’s question.

“—with us?”

“Oh, I—well, I don’t think I should,” Molly answered, glancing at Sherlock. “It’s probably best I stay behind.”

Greg knew things were strained between them—he had even been on the receiving end of her lack of communication. He nodded in understanding, not wanting to push her into it. “Suit yourself. How long are you here for?”

“Just until the end of the week, then back to Galway,” she informed him. The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

_Galway_ , Sherlock thought. _So that’s where she ran off to._ It was where her grandmother was from—her father’s mother. It should have been blaringly obvious, but he had kept himself from thinking too much about it.

“Well, do us all a favor, and phone us once in a while…yeah?” He clapped Sherlock on his back, including him in that statement.

She nodded. “Of course.” Her eyes met Sherlock’s briefly. Never did she want to let him down again. “You have my word.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby steps...lots of baby steps lol


	3. What's Left of Me

Mary Watson had her own issues with the way Molly left things. She wasn’t angry, but she had been, and still was, very disappointed in her friend. Her phone calls and texts had gone ignored, and eventually she had stopped trying. She had her suspicions that Molly had been backed into a corner, made to feel like she could do nothing but leave everyone and everything behind.

John, however, was angry with Molly for hurting Sherlock the way she had. A part of him felt guilty too. In the beginning of the two’s relationship, he hadn’t believed Sherlock to be sincere about his feelings towards her. He had been quite vocal about these doubts, and it surely did nothing but make Molly feel her own skepticism was valid. After some time, though, John saw how truly enamored they were. He was happy for them. Mary was happy for them. And she wanted to see them happy again, so that’s why, the next morning, Mary found herself outside Molly’s hotel room, knocking on the door.

Molly’s eyes widened upon opening the door. “Mary!” she exclaimed. With joy or fear, she didn’t really know. “You’re not here to chew me out too, are you?”

Mary’s lips quirked up into a small, amused smile. “Not at all. I simply wish to catch up. May I come in?”

Hesitantly, Molly stepped aside, allowing her to pass, and closed the door behind them. “I’m sorry, Mary. I know you tried to call, text, but I wasn’t—I couldn’t face anyone.” She sat on the bed beside her once closest female friend. Two years of silence hung between them. “I should’ve kept contact, but the longer I waited, the harder it became to pick up the phone.”

“Damn right, you should have,” Mary remarked, the disappointment clear on her face. “Molly, why did you leave? Why didn’t you say anything to anyone?”

 _So much for not chewing me out_ , she thought bitterly. “You and John were on your holiday—I wasn’t going to ruin that. I left London, because I knew if I stayed, I’d never get over him,” she explained.

Mary narrowed her eyes, her feelings of suspicion and curiosity were evident. “Why did you leave Sherlock? No explanation, no phone call, no letter—you two were so happy. What changed?”

Tears began to well up in her eyes. Molly knew she couldn’t keep it a secret. “I just—I allowed my fears to get the best of me. I couldn’t believe him capable of love, let alone loving me.” In all honesty, despite the difficulty of the subject, she felt relieved to tell someone.

This had, apparently, been the wrong thing to say, because Mary looked furious. “Molly Hooper, how dare you! You know Sherlock better than anyone. Incapable of love? Did you forget you helped him fake his death in order to protect the people he loved!? He was a mess when he found out you left. Molly, he was torn apart. Inconsolable.”

“Don’t you think I—“

Just then, Molly’s mobile rang, and Mary snagged it after catching sight of the name displayed on the screen. “And tell me why is Mycroft Holmes calling your mobile?”

She swallowed hard. “I haven’t the slightest idea. It isn’t as if I’ve kept contact with him.”

Mary looked from the phone to her friend’s unconvincing composed face. Molly’s eyes, however, betrayed her, the guilt clear within them. “What did he tell you? Was he the one who told you that Sherlock was incapable of love? Hm? Did he persuade you to leave? Or was that your idea?”

Molly broke down, her defenses crumbling. “He suggested I break it off and save myself the pain. I’m the one who decided to leave London. But I’m also the one who made the choice to leave him. Nobody else is to blame but me. I know, it was stupid to listen to him, but it was easier to believe that over the truth. I know I should’ve talked to Sherlock about how I felt, about my fears and doubts, but I couldn’t face it. I wasn’t brave enough to let him love me, Mary.”

Softly, Mary asked, “And now?”

“Now it doesn’t matter,” she replied sadly. “He’s made his position quite clear.” Desperate for a change in topic, Molly said the only thing she knew she needed to say to her long lost friend. “I’m sorry I didn’t phone, Mary. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Rosie’s christening. I wish I could change the past, but since I can’t, I hope we can remain friends for the rest of the foreseeable future.”

“Come here.” Mary pulled her in for a warm hug. She and Molly had gotten so close thanks to Sherlock introducing them when he returned to London. The infamous Molly Hooper who he had trusted with his life, and eventually his heart—Mary so wanted them to work things out. They owed it to themselves and to each other. “Chin up, luv, it’ll turn out alright in the end.”

It hadn’t taken much for Mary to forgive her. After all, she’d done worse, and only hoped her friend could forgive her too when she would inevitably find out. For the next half hour, they talked, catching up on two years’ worth of life. From what Molly told her, she was content, but there seemed to be an emptiness in her words. With her back in London, Mary hoped this was the push her friends needed to start working things out. Anyone with eyes could see how much they love one another. Looking at the time, she frowned. “I’m afraid I need to go; I need to pick up Rosie from Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson’s been watching her nearly all morning.”

“Oh, of course! Thank you for coming over, Mary,” Molly smiled. “I’ve missed you.”

Mary stood, ready to head out. “This has been nice, seeing you again, catching up.” She dug in her bag. “Here.” She handed a thick envelope to her. “It’s a letter I had written to you, but I couldn’t send it, not knowing exactly where you were. There’s a lot about me you need to know too, but I haven’t the time to stay much longer. Why don’t you come to ours for dinner tomorrow night? Around six-thirty?”

Molly nodded, her spirits lifting. “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Mary.” The idea of it was nerve-wracking—surely Sherlock would be there—but she couldn’t help the bit of excitement she felt. The Watsons had once been just as much her close friends as they were Sherlock’s, and it would be nice to be reunited again. She took a quick look at the time, ignoring the missed call on her mobile. The man was a nuisance. Somehow, she knew that Mycroft would think of other ways to get in contact with her, and this time, she was prepared.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the short line at the coffee shop across the street from Bart’s. He needed a decent cuppa which was the one thing the hospital couldn’t offer him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. Molly sat in a booth seat across from Greg, her head thrown back laughing at whatever was said. A tightness in his chest reminded him that he was unable to keep the jealousy at bay. He had missed hearing her laugh. Perhaps he’d try a lighter approach with her today just to see if he could still amuse her.

As he moved up in line, her eyes found him and she offered him a friendly smile. Sherlock tried to offer one back, but was interrupted by one Janine Hawkins. “Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe. It’s been too long, Mister. How are things?”

“Same as always,” he replied. “How’s Sussex Downs?”

She shrugged. “You know, cosy.” Janine slid her hand up his chest. “Could be better if you were there.” Before he had time to protest, she pressed her lips to his. “Something to remember me by.” With a wink, she took her leave.

That woman could be a menace sometimes. She knew he held no interest for her, and yet, she persisted. He supposed that’s what he got for using her to get to Magnussen. Sherlock moved up in line—he’d be next—and searched for Molly, but there was no sign of her or Greg anywhere. There wasn’t time to feel disappointed. Sherlock finally received his coffee, grabbing a couple of custard crème biscuits, and paid before leaving.

* * *

Molly flipped furiously through the pages. She had asked Greg about the nature of Sherlock and Janine’s relationship. Only briefly she had met her at John and Mary’s wedding, but never did she think he would’ve taken up with the woman. The tabloids were most likely fake, but Molly couldn’t help but think there was some truth to them. The headlines had her feeling sick.

**Shag-a-lot-Holmes**

**7 Times a Night in Baker Street**

**He Made Me Wear the Hat**

So, the last one was probably fake, but the other two—from experience, Molly knew Sherlock was quite capable. Definitely not seven times, but there had been long nights of passion between them. She began to feel flustered, warmth pooling below her abdomen. In a fit of frustration, she tore up the articles and tossed them in the bin. Before she had time to compose herself, the most infuriating, intoxicating man she knew came sweeping into the lab. It reminded her of another time, long ago… 

_The doors to the lap flew open and Molly turned to see Sherlock with a skip in his step as he approached her. The man took her breath away every time he looked at her like that, as if she was the most precious thing in the world. “Sherlock, what—mmph!” His lips—warm, soft, delicious—were on hers in an instant. His hands slid down over her bum and he lifted her onto one of the tables. Molly locked her arms around his neck, her fingers buried in his curls._

_“Molly,” he said breathlessly, trailing his lips down her neck, tugging her lab coat away from it for better access._

_Her toes curled as she bit her lip in an effort to keep quiet. She sighed happily. He caught her lips once more, his tongue teasing her. Just as she tried to deepen the kiss, the doors to the lab swung open, and Sherlock broke away to see who had interrupted them._

_John Watson stood there, brows furrowed, mouth agape. “You left me with a dead body to have a snog with your girlfriend!? You told me you were checking on an experiment!”_

_A small giggle escaped her lips, and Molly quickly covered her mouth. And soon, she and Sherlock were both laughing, leaving John to roll his eyes, secretly happy that his friends were so crazy about each other. The passion they shared was unmatched. Sherlock pressed a tender, warm kiss against her lips, lingering for just a moment._

_“I suppose I’m doing the autopsy?” she asked._

_He smiled. “If you don’t mind. You know nobody else compares to you.”_

_As Sherlock grabbed her hand and turned to leave the lab, Molly didn’t follow, making him turn back at her. In a sultry voice, she asked, “Can we finish this experiment later?”_

_A flirty wink is what he answered with, and the two headed down to the morgue, following after an amused John Watson._

Molly had been so lost in the memory, she hadn’t realised she was being asked a question. “Sorry, what?” Sherlock was standing in front of her now.

“I asked if custard crème was still your favourite,” he repeated without emotion, holding out the packet of biscuits to her.

“Oh,” she laughed nervously, “yes, they are. Thank you.” Molly accepted the biscuits—a token of his cordiality she was sure. “Will you be staying?”

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee. “Not for long; I’m just checking up on some cultures.”

“An experiment?” she asked almost too excitedly.

“Of sorts,” he replied, no longer paying her attention. And then, “I’m quite sure we’ve almost cracked this case. Once it’s over, you’ll no longer be needed here.”

There went the truce they had established. Molly willed herself not to cry. “Thank God for that,” she replied coldly, and stormed out of the lab, not once turning back. All that was left of her was two broken hearts; hers…and Sherlock’s. And no one was willing to pick up the pieces. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are so hot and cold with each other!! Doesn't it make you want to just pull your hair out??? It'll get just a bit worse before it gets better. And it will get better lol

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind, this is LOOSELY based on Jane Austen's Persuasion. I took a lot of the elements I liked and tried to twist it in a way that fit these characters. I hope y'all enjoy this one!


End file.
